I'm standing outside Sky Club, sweating through my lucky blue polo, trying not to throw up. Inside, the best billiards players in Saigon are warming up. In about ten minutes, I'm supposed to walk in there and play against one of them.
I've never won a single game of billiards in my life.
This is what happens when you run your mouth online.
See, three weeks ago I was just some programmer scrolling TikTok at 2 AM. You know how the algorithm works—one minute you're watching cats, next minute you're deep in billiards content. That's how I found her video. Minh Anh, doing this impossible curve shot. The ball curved like... I don't know, like it was magic or something.
But my brain doesn't do magic. I'm a programmer. I see that shot and I'm thinking physics, angles, spin rates. So I watch it again. And again. Maybe fifteen times? Twenty? My roommate definitely thought I'd lost it.
The comments were full of people going "OMG queen!" and "teach me!" Basic shit. So I wrote something smarter. Technical. About cue ball trajectory and english rotation. Made me sound like I actually knew what I was talking about.
That was my first mistake.
My second mistake was getting cocky. Started commenting on more videos. Longer comments. Really detailed stuff about masse shots and position play, like I'd been playing for years instead of just watching YouTube tutorials.
Then she replied.
Minh Anh. The actual Queen of Nine-Ball. Pinned my comment to the top with a laughing emoji and wrote: "Sky Club tonight. Exhibition match. Come show me these techniques you're always talking about."
Oh shit.
That was two days ago. I spent yesterday night googling "how to hold a pool cue" and "billiards for complete beginners." Pathetic.
But here I am. Because backing down now would be worse than getting humiliated in person, right? At least that's what I keep telling myself.
The building looks expensive. Glass everywhere, fancy lighting. Through the windows I can see the tables—green felt stretched tight, balls arranged in perfect triangles. People moving around them like they belong there.
I don't belong there.
"You going in or what?"
Some guy behind me, waiting. I step aside, watch him push through the doors like it's nothing. He's carrying a leather case that probably costs more than my laptop.
Everyone here has those cases. Professional cues. I've got a house cue I bought yesterday at a sporting goods store. Forty bucks. The sales guy said it was "fine for beginners."
The woman at registration looks me up and down when I give her my name. Checks her list twice.
"K-rank?" She sounds confused. "This is a GHI tournament."
"I know."
"You sure about this?"
No. "Yeah."
She shrugs, writes something down. "Table three. You're playing Tung Rau." Doesn't even try to hide her smirk. "Good luck."
Tung Rau. I've heard that name. YouTube comments always mention him. "King of Championship Finals" or something like that.
Great.
I find table three in the corner. There's already someone there—tall guy with a neat beard, setting up his cue. The cue is beautiful. Carbon fiber, probably custom made. When he sees me coming, he stops and stares.
"You're my opponent?"
Not "hi" or "nice to meet you." Just that.
"I guess so. I'm—"
"You know there are nine balls in nine-ball, right?" He's not being mean, exactly. More like... confused. Like I'm a kid who wandered into the wrong room.
My face gets hot. "Yeah, I know."
"And you understand the rules?"
Of course I know the rules. I've watched probably a hundred matches online. I know about combination shots and push-outs and safety play. I know Earl Strickland never smiles and Efren Reyes is called "The Magician" and Shane Van Boening has the best break in the game.
The problem isn't knowledge.
The problem is my hands.
It happens every time there's pressure. My fingers go numb. Not like cold numb—like the connection between my brain and my hands just... cuts out. I've been dealing with it since high school. Job interviews, presentations, first dates. Anything where people are watching and waiting for me to mess up.
I call it ATSM. Anxiety That Stiffens Muscles. Stupid name, but it helps to label things. Like debugging code—you have to identify the error before you can fix it.
Except I still haven't figured out how to fix it.
"You can break," Tung says. He's rolling chalk on his cue tip, watching me with this patient expression. Like a teacher waiting for a slow student to figure out basic math.
I walk to the head of the table. The cue ball is sitting there, white and perfect. All I have to do is hit it hard enough to scatter the other balls. I've seen it done a thousand times.
My hands are already shaking.
Come on. It's just a ball. Just hit the fucking ball.
I line up the shot. Bring the cue back. The room gets quiet—or maybe that's just my brain shutting down. I can feel people watching. Tung behind me, other players glancing over from their games. Probably wondering who the kid with the cheap cue thinks he is.
I bring the cue forward and—
Nothing.
I mean, I hit the ball. But it barely moves. Just rolls forward a few inches and stops. Doesn't even reach the other balls.
The silence is deafening.
"Invalid break," Tung says quietly. "Want to try again?"
I can't look at him. Can't look at anyone. My face feels like it's on fire and I can hear whispers starting around the room.
"I..." My voice comes out as a croak. "I'm sorry. I can't do this."
Tung's eyebrows went up. "Forfeiting? We haven't even started."
"This place isn't for someone like me," I whispered. "You were right. Sorry for wasting your time."
I grabbed my stuff and ran.
---
Outside, Saigon sun hit me like a wall. I fumbled for mints in my pocket, hands still shaking. One, two, three... tried to count my breathing back to normal.
My phone buzzed.
Oh shit.
The avatar I recognized immediately—the Queen herself. The player I'd spent nights studying, whose shots I'd claimed to understand in my cocky comments.
"How's your match going? Heading over now. Want to see that massé technique you keep talking about. Don't finish too early ;) Lol!" – Minh Anh
My stomach dropped. That stupid comment I'd made—"Billiards is easy as hell, simpler than those marble games from when I was a kid. Anyone can do those massé shots"—somehow she'd pinned it to the top with a laughing emoji.
"Sky Club is where serious players go. If you want to prove your claims, that's the place."
I opened the app, frantically deleting the comment and every trace of our interaction. But how the hell was I supposed to face her now? My online bullshit had caught up with me, and I was about to be exposed as the fraud I really was.
Embarrassment was just the beginning. I was drowning, and there was no way out.